Bob Shryock: He was just one of the boys

My first exposure to baseball spring training was March 1962 in Daytona Beach, Fla. It wasn’t exactly the big leagues. There I was, a wet-behind-the-ears 23-year-old Binghamton Evening Press rookie sportswriter, knocking on the door of the manager of the Triplets’ Class A Kansas City affiliate at a run-down old Army base. He was a guy with a familiar name I’d get to know rather well over the next five months.

Granny Hamner opened his door, stood there in his boxer shorts and white T-shirt, took a long puff from a cigarette, and scowled.

“You my reporter?” Granny asked grumpily.

Feeling just a tad intimidated, I replied, “Guess so, Mr. Hamner.”

“Granny,” he corrected. “It’s Granny.”

And from that day in 1962 until the day he died in a Philadelphia hotel on oldtimers’ weekend in 1993, we remained good friends even though we didn’t see each other for a stretch of 30 years.

I think of Granny, who compiled the highest World Series batting average of any member of the 1950 Whiz Kids, every year at this time when the boys of summer roll up their sleeves and head south.

We had a blast in Daytona Beach, where his Triplets’ lineup included future major leaguers and free spirits Lew Krausse Jr., Freddy Norman, and slugging Kenny “The Hawk” Harrelson.

Granny bought me dinner most nights because I was on a $3 per diem budget, took me to the movies, and even took me miniature golfing. He joked with me, tormented me, but always showed me respect. I loved the guy. To this day, almost 50 years later, he remains the most humble, down-to-earth sports personality I’ve ever met.

After spring training, I drove him from Florida to his hometown of Richmond, Va., where he picked up his car for the trip to Binghamton. Then I covered all his home games for the Evening Press. He regaled me with big league war stories over a beer in the Sheraton Hotel after games. Even though the Triplets finished dead last in the Eastern League, the former infielder and his career-altering knuckleball led the league in earned run average.

He even got me an interview with big league owner Bill Veeck in the Sheraton bar. It was a memorable meeting because I nervously kicked the table support during the interview before being informed by an agitated Veeck, “would you mind not kicking my wooden leg?”

Granny and I parted company that September and didn’t see each other until the fall of 1992 when the phone rang in my office at Pitman Golf Course.

“Bob, it’s Granny. I need a job.” That’s how Granny became a part-time ranger/starter at PGC and a golf hustler who loved winning $2 Nassaus, and a shrewd poker player with Digger and the boys. The golfers loved playing with Granny and hearing his endless unprintable baseball yarns.

One day I had to tell Granny a golfer reported him sleeping in a cart while he was rangering.

“Good,” Granny said sheepishly. “I was tired of it anyway.”

But Granny hung around, played golf and gin every day for a few bucks, and signed autographs when Ron Jaworski leased the club.

The next spring, Granny accompanied about a dozen friends on a golf trip to Myrtle Beach, S.C. His overall health was poor, his legs especially bad. As I helped him get into one of the vans, he looked at me and said, “Bob, I’ll be dead by the fall.”

On Sept. 12, 1993, six months later, Granny died in a Philadelphia hotel room during a ceremonial weekend for the Phillies’ old guard. He missed seeing the ’93 Phils make it to the World Series before Mitch Williams threw the infamous home run pitch.

I think of Granville Wilbur Hamner often when spring training begins. And how the best thing about him was he was always just one of the boys.